The streets of heaven, I've been told, Are paved with bricks of solid gold; The gates are all of precious stone, And poverty's a thing unknown; No thunder-showers enter there, For every day is dazzling fair. Yet, strangely, I have never heard A flower mentioned, or a bird; And I'm quite sure that I would tire Of playing on a golden lyre. So, if there's room, along the walks I think I'll plant some hollyhocks; And soon as they begin to grow I'll tend them with a golden hoe. If Gabriel should pass my way, I'm certain he'd sit down and stay. |